


Do You Want To Build A Snowman?

by Ilovehighhats



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Gen, snowman building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovehighhats/pseuds/Ilovehighhats
Summary: One of the people in the fic asks the question. There is only one possible answer.





	Do You Want To Build A Snowman?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [Pootles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pootles/gifts).



> This was inspired by the amazing @ThreeDots. She is awesome. My inspiration.   
> Also, a tiny, tiny token of appreciation to @Pootles.   
> Thank you, darlings!

Snow.

It was glittering and twinkling, covering the ground in an uniform layer of seemingly pillowy soft brightness. The fluffy white specks kept falling gently between coarse and square socrealistic blocks of flats, adding to the gentle mounds between them and blurring the ugliness with that inexplicably magical quality of something pristine and unblemished.

Pure.

Everything they were not.

Barsad didn't have to look back to know who was behind him in the derelict flat. Siergiej, their local contact. Aadesh, the commander of this mission. Damir, the medic and the best driver in the League. Barsad himself, the sniper in training. And Bane. The muscle, ostensibly, but even to Barsad’s untrained eye he was much more than just a guy with some mass. His martial training was extraordinary, from what John saw. Fast, incredibly so for someone of his stature and size. Precise, but that was to be expected, since Bane was very exact in everything he did. Strong, and again, it seemed only natural… But then he never overdid the training. He never hurt to the point of an irreversible injury. He always held back, was in control.

This was the first time Barsad saw the man unguarded. Well, as much as one could be while wearing an abomination made out of metal right where his nose and mouth should be. His eyes were visible and that was more than enough. With how expressive they were Barsad wondered how had he never noticed before the speed with which he could read Bane’s moods just looking at them. The usual impassiveness was telling in and of itself, but right now he was drinking in the scenery behind the window, the dull greyish blue of his pupils clearly visible with how wide his eyes were. 

Awe.

It would be easy to laugh. The childlike wonder of a killer. The glee caused by merely solidified water, in someone who would spend hours upon hours interrogating people without respite. The perfect tear sliding down one cheek to hide in the unforgiving metal maw over Bane’s lips, a testament to how a monster could appreciate beauty.

“Do you want to build a snowman?”

The question came out faster than Barsad could think, in a whisper, his voice hushed. Still, the ghost of his breath painted the glass with a white cloud of steam, evaporating before Bane’s cold stare.

“No.”

Of course he wouldn’t, Barsad thought bitterly. The sniper himself had only seen snow in pictures and on the television. Neither of them was invited to the League headquarters yet, so they dwelled in the bountiful but boring country below the mountains, the local base sleepy and unkempt. For those that weren’t worthy yet to get on the road to the knowledge, to the enlightenment. 

How ridiculous, their boss was sitting in a monastery covered in ice and snowcaps, and here he was coveting the feel of frozen water on his hands. 

Well, millions of people got by without it. He could too.

“You were serious?” 

The whisper startled Barsad out of his musings, and the man realized he was frowning deeply, his mouth automatically forming an unhappy scowl. Just like in all those stupid cartoons. He glanced at Bane to gauge his intentions.

“I’ve never built one,” he confessed.

“Me neither,” Bane replied instantly.

“So, do you wanna…?”

“Meet me outside in exactly two minutes.”

It took a lot of self-discipline not to trace Bane’s steps when he moved back and to the commander. But Barsad was training his patience. What was a sniper without it? A mere sharpshooter and that was nothing. Those came a dozen a dime. He was better.

His muscles trembled with the cold, the freezing air permeating all the layers Barsad had on him. The first thing he felt was now familiar prickling of his cheeks, his skin practically shrinking over the sculpted cheekbones. It was the low temperature that made him nearly skip his way down to where Bane was stoically waiting, not the excitement. Nope. He was a mercenary, a killer, a murderer.

Barsad really wanted to build that fucking snowman.

When he reached Bane the man unclenched one palm, showing him what he had found. Some lumps of coal.

“For the eyes, and the smile,” he explained.

Barsad nodded with respect. Prepared as ever, he thought with some degree of admiration. He himself had only one thing, but it played perfectly into what they had planned. He produced a piece of ammo from one of his pockets.

“Perfect,” Bane decreed. “Come.”

He went without looking if Barsad would follow, but then that wasn’t really a question at this point. 

They ended up in a shallow dip of the ground, behind the dumpsters, secluded and a bit gloomy even in morning sun. The snow crunched under their boots, with a satisfying snap after every step. 

“So, how do we do this?” Barsad asked.

Bane looked at him and for a little while John could swear he was at a loss. 

“We need to make a snowball and roll it around.”

“Right.”

As if on command, they both crouched and grabbed some of the white fluff into their hands. It stucknicely, retaining shape when squeezed. The heat of their palms smoothed the surface of the snowballs, and in no time at all both men held up a perfect sphere each.

Barsad outright grinned.

Bane’s eyes shone with mirth. 

“Let’s fatten these fuckers up!” Barsad exclaimed and set his snowball forward to gather more body. Bane followed his example and soon they were shuffling up and down the gentle slopes, collecting more and more snow on the way.

“Mine is bigger, it shall be the foundation,” Bane said when they met at the bottom of the slope. “You go and make another one for the head, I'll assemble these two.”

“Yessir!” Barsad saluted and ducked to make another ball. 

He raised his head sharply when he heard an unusual sound coming Bane’s way. Was that.. A giggle?

The last part of the snowman was the smallest, so Barsad finished with it pretty quickly. He cradled it in his arms, the weight of wet snow oddly comfortable, the pressure on his chest somehow familiar. Like a pet, or a baby. For a little while he just stood at the top of a low slope behind the dumpsters, and watched Bane fuss over the two big balls they already had. He had brought more coal than what he initially showed, and now the snowman had buttons, evenly spaced bold lumps of black. He even had hands, two branches sticking out on each side, pointing upwards. 

The only missing part was in Barsad’s hands.

Bane turned, as if he knew he was being watched, hands confidently resting on his hips.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Coming!”

The sniper ran down the slope, sliding once and nearly tripping back, at the end practically running into Bane’s solid frame. 

“Here,” he said, grinning again, pressing the ball right into the bigger man’s stomach.

“Why thank you, ‘tis just what I wanted.”

Barsad snorted a short chuckle and watched as Bane gingerly, very gingerly, set the snowman's head on top. He then gently pressed the roundest lumps of coals for eyes and the rest arranged into a slightly lopsided smile. 

“Now for the piece de resistance,” he murmured and held out an expectant palm back to Barsad, without even looking back. 

The nose was a bit grotesque, a cal fifty cartridge, shiny brass glinting in the dim sunlight.

“He’s missing something,” Bane murmured.

“What are you talking about? It’s the best snowman I’ve ever made.”

Once again there was this weird sound from behind Bane's mask. A chortle, perhaps, not a giggle? Grown up men didn’t giggle, right?

How old was Bane, anyway?

The thought flew out of Barsad’s head when he saw his colleague yank on his scarf, the fiery red woollen garment then draped over the line between snowman’s head and torso.

“Now, it’s perfect,” he simply said.

Barsad only nodded. It really was.


End file.
